Brought up in the forests of northern Maine, and seeing few persons excepting her uncle and Angelique, the Indian housekeeper, Margot Romeyn knows little of life beyond the deep hemlocks. Naturally observant, she is encouraged in her out-of-door studies by her uncle, at one time a college professor. Through her woodland instincts, she and her uncle are enabled to save the life of Adrian Wadislaw, a youth who, lost and almost overcome with hunger, has been wandering in the neighboring forest. To Margot the new friend is a welcome addition to her small circle of acquaintances, and after his rapid recovery she takes great delight in showing him the many wonders of the forest about her home. But finally, after many weeks, the uncle decides, because of reasons which will be known later, that it would be better for Margot if Adrian left them. Accordingly, he puts the matter before the young man, who, although reluctant to leave his new friends, volunteers to go. Under the guidance of Pierre Ricord, a young Indian, the lad sets out for the nearest settlement. After many adventures, including a narrow escape from the dangerous rapids, in which the travelers lost the canoe and nearly all their possessions, the two reach Donovan’s, their destination. Here they separate, Adrian going straight to New York and the home which he left seemingly so long ago. We leave him on the threshold of his father’s city mansion, wondering what welcome there will be for the prodigal. Pierre returns to Peace Island, where, with Margot and her uncle, we again take up the story.
“No sign yet?”
“No sign.” Margot’s tone was almost hopeless. Day after day, many times each day, she had climbed the pine-tree flagstaff and peered into the distance. Not once had anything been visible, save that wide stretch of forest and the shining lake.
“Suppose you cross again, to Old Joe’s. He might be back by this time. I’ll fix you a bite of dinner, and you better, maybe—”
The girl shook her head and clasped her arms about old Angelique’s neck. Then the long repressed grief burst forth in dry sobs that shook them both, and pierced the housekeeper’s faithful heart with a pain beyond endurance.
“Pst! pouf! Hush, sweetheart, hush! ’Tis nought. A few days more, and the master will be well. A few days more, and Pierre will come. Ah! but I had my hands about his ears this minute. That would teach him—yes—to turn his back on duty—him. The ingrate! Well, what the Lord sends the body must bear, and if the broken glass—”
Margot lifted her head, shook back her hair, and smiled wanly. The veriest ghost of her old smile it was, yet, even such, a delight to the other’s eyes.
“Good. That’s right. Rouse up. There’s a wing of a fowl in the cupboard, left from the master’s broth—”
“Angel, he didn’t touch it, to-day. Not even touch it.”